


Three is Not Necessarily a Crowd

by knowledgekid



Series: 3 Months in Fillory [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Eliot's marriage doesn't stop certain things from happening, F/M, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 08:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16909368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowledgekid/pseuds/knowledgekid
Summary: Eliot is tired having nothing but thai food until he dies, as he tells Margo. He wants Quentin. She wants Quentin. And perhaps they can come up with a work-around to that whole Fillorian marriage thing ...





	Three is Not Necessarily a Crowd

“Bambi, do you remember what I said about Thai food?” Eliot asks. They’re sitting on an esplanade at the top of one of Whitespire’s magnificent towers. The sun sinks into golds and pinks on one side and the crescent moon rises into the dark it leaves behind. 

Margo takes a sip of Fillorian red, which tastes sort of like a Pinot fought a Malbec to a bloody and unsatisfying draw. But it’s all they’ve got, and it’ll get them drunk. “That you wanted some?” 

“No. That I like girls the way I like Thai food? And all of a sudden now it’s Thai food all the time forever until I die.” He swishes the wine in his mouth. “God, I hope the champagne experiments pay off soon. This is pure swill.”

“I seem to recall that part, now that you mention it.” She tucks her feet underneath her. It’s probably royally unbecoming, but whatever. She’s wearing pants today, the scandal of the court, so it doesn’t matter very much, and anyway, no one’s up here to see her. 

“I am really fucking sick of Thai food,” he says despairingly. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Fen’s great, but, you know, sometimes, I just want a fucking hamburger.” 

“You mean you want dick.” Margo chugs some wine. You taste it less that way. 

“Must you be so crude? Can’t we just work with this euphemism here?” 

“It’s getting unwieldy.” 

“Okay. Fine. Yes, I want dick. Is that too much to ask?” 

“Apparently Fillory thinks so,” she says. 

“Well, fuck Fillory.” Margo’s long learned to recognize the signs, and she realizes suddenly that Eliot is dead-drunk. He’ll have one hell of a headache tomorrow, she knows. That should make court even more annoying than usual. 

“I mean, it’s not fair,” he goes on. He gives her a sideways glance. “You get what you want.” 

“Eliot, you’re smashed,” she says. 

“Come on. The whole palace knows you’re fucking Q as often as you can get him.” He pouts. “We got Q _together_ , Bambi. Friends share.” 

“One, I fucked Coldwater twice. Two, you snuck in and watched us do it one of those times, creeper. I still owe you for that, you know.” 

“Well, at least you can fuck him. I can’t.” He sulks into his wine. The stars have begun to prick the sky, and a light breeze has picked up. 

“Yeah, well.” Margo looks up into the night, and the fairy queen is floating there, staring at her. She looks away quickly. “It was good for him. He needed a distraction from the drinking and the misery and the whole ‘I had to let my Niffin girlfriend out of back before she killed me’ thing.” 

“You always take care of Q.” 

“I do not.” 

“You do, Bambi. It’s sweet.”

“I’m too busy taking care of you, groomzilla, to worry about anyone else.” 

“No, you do. When Alice, um, died, you were always the one who yelled at him to eat. During the middle of state dinners” — he grimaces a little — “but you _did_ make him eat. You always drug him out of his room and down to court — I know it was you making the servants do it. You drugged his wine so he couldn’t hurt himself.” 

“I did not!” Margo says hotly. 

“You did. I saw you in the kitchens.” 

“What the fuck were you doing in the kitchens?” 

“What the fuck were _you_ doing in the kitchens?” 

They each glare at each other for a moment, Margo with pursed lips, Eliot with a half-smirk. 

“So I care about the little nerd,” Margo says. “You do too.” 

“Yeah, but I never try to hide it.” 

“You want to know the truth, Eliot?” Margo asks. She realizes she’s drunk now too. She doesn’t give a fuck. “Quentin cares. He cares about shit. He cares about everything. He cares about fucking Julia, after all she’s done to us. He cares about Alice. He cares about magic. He loves magic, even, and he loves all of it in this, like, perfect pure way. He loves Fillory like that. He loves you like that. Fuck, he might even love me like that in some weird, platonic way, for all I know. And when you find that, you don’t let it go.” 

“You’re in love with him,” Eliot breathes. 

“You’re in love with him,” Margo accuses. She crosses her arms. The fairy queen is gone, and the night crickets have started up, far below them. They’re not unlike the cicadas she remembers from childhood vacations on the Georgia sea islands. The torches blow on around them suddenly with a windy whoomph. Fillory is never quiet. 

“Well, where’s the line?” Margo asks reasonably. She’s used to gaming the system. “You just can’t actually _touch_ Q, right?” 

“I’m pretty sure, yeah.” 

“Well, we can think of something.” She smiles. “You deserve a hamburger, El.”

***

“You want to _what_?” Quentin asks. He’s not nearly drunk enough for what for what they’re proposing. The first time they were fucked up on emotion magic. The second time they were half asleep. The third time both he and Margo were smashed on Fillorian red. This time everyone’s stone-cold sober-ish. Margo’s leaning back into Eliot’s mound of pillows, legs crossed, and he can tell by how high her tits are that she’s wearing one of those corsets again. Eliot’s sitting next to her, perfect regal posture, big red glass in his hand. Quentin’s relegated to one of the cushy side chairs, drinking again but not nearly drunk enough for this. The fire burbles merrily, throws some heat on them and the now-comforting smokey smell of Whitespire. They’ve sent off all the servants and made sure Fen is busy elsewhere. 

“I want directorial privileges,” Eliot says. 

“Like a porn,” Quentin says flatly. 

“Do you all have to be so _crude_ all the time? God, I’m surrounded by barbarians.” 

“Fillorians,” Margo corrects him. 

“I’m not talking about them. They’re a whole other category of crude.”

“Look, I’m not saying that night wasn’t amazing —” Quentin begins. 

“Which night?” Margo snaps. 

“Um, all of them?” Q stumbles. “Especially the first one, with both of you? But we were really fucked up, you guys. What you’re proposing is sort of ... unorthodox. Plus it’s kind of cheating?” 

“Look, Eliot deserves this,” Margo says smoothly. “You know that.” 

“I know, but —” 

“And I really want this,” Eliot says. 

“And he really wants this.” 

“And you really do like fucking Bambi.” 

“You really do like fucking me.” 

“We floated off up to the ceiling,” Quentin says in wonderment. He still can’t get over that particular detail. 

Eliot laughs. “That never happened to you before? Oh, Q. You have so much to learn.” 

Margo nods. “He really does. Do you know he never went down on girl before?” 

“Never?!” Eliot’s aghast. 

“Never.” Margo smirks. 

“You guys,” Quentin pleads. 

“All I’m asking is that I get to watch and tell you what to do. I know what Bambi likes. And I’m pretty sure it’s seared into my brain what you like, Q.” 

“It’s not like you were our first threesome,” Margo says. 

“And it’s not like I’ve never fucked Bambi.” 

“I thought you didn’t like girls? I thought that was the whole point of this?” 

“Thai food, Quentin. Girls are like Thai food. You love it, but you don’t want to have anything else until you die.” 

“So you want me?” Quentin’s still mystified as to why such elevated creatures as Eliot and Margo even notice him, let alone seem to want him in their beds. He’s still, at heart, the nerdy kid lost in a Fillory novel on some rainy afternoon, while they’re beings from some other plane of existence where people always know how to dress and sling the perfect snarky comeback. 

“Of course we do, Q,” Margo says. “Don’t make me get all sentimental. I haven’t had nearly enough to drink.”

“But you guys are —“

“Q.” Eliot’s looking at him now with something other than pure lust. “Q. When will you just fucking accept the fact that we love you?” 

Margo’s turning red. 

“I love you guys too,” he says simply. 

“Okay, now that we’ve gotten that part out of the way,” Margo says a little too loudly. 

“And you know how Bambi and I feel about you.” 

“Um, no, I actually don’t?” Quentin can’t believe what he’s hearing. 

“Quentin. We. Love. You.” Margo enunciates. “Jesus, how thick are you? Do you think we’d stick around through your Fillory and the Infinite Sadness bullshit if we didn’t?” 

“Um, Alice _died_.” 

“Well, not _technically_ ,” Eliot points out. 

“Yeah, and you didn’t, thank god and that centaur hospice. So maybe it’s time to live.” 

“And by live, you mean fuck you while Eliot watches?”

“Okay, this is going downhill fast,” Eliot says. He takes a sip of wine, a theatrical sip that pauses everything while he drinks. “Quentin. Bambi and I adore you. We love you. We would like to _make love to you_ , but I can’t, for — reasons — and she can. So let us. Look, if I just wanted to stare at some naked guy and jerk off, I could look around Fillory and point, okay? I’m the high king. Who’s going to say no?” His expression softened. “But I want you. We want you.” 

Quentin glances at Margo. 

“We do, okay?” she says. She’s looking down now, picking at the skin on the side of her thumb. Eliot slaps her hand. She glares at him but stops. 

“Really? Because you don’t seem like it.” 

“Jesus, Quentin, do I have to get down on one knee?” Eliot asks. 

“No, it’s just —“ He sighs, runs his hands through his hair. “Look. I’m not used to this, okay? My whole life, I’ve been the one doing the wanting. Even with Alice. The idea that someone wants me instead is sort of ludicrous.” 

“I told you Alice wasn’t good enough for him,” Margo says to Eliot with a vehemence that shocks Quentin. 

“Alice was fine for me,” Quentin shoots back. 

“Okay, let’s not rehash every moment of our particular shared past,” Eliot says quickly. “If I could keep the two of you off each other’s throats for a minute we might actually get somewhere. Quentin, you’re depressed. Bambi, you’re depressed. Move on.” 

“I’m not depressed!” Margo says hotly. 

“Then what are you?” Eliot asks. 

“Not depressed,” she snaps. 

“You’re day-drinking and using Quentin as a fuck buddy.” 

“Isn’t the whole point of this conversation to use Quentin as a fuck buddy?” 

“No, the whole point is to show Quentin how much we love him.” He pauses. “And have fun fucking around with him.” 

“Then what are fuck buddies for, El?” 

“Oh god, this is getting circular,” Quentin says. He drains his glass. “I’m supposed to fuck one of you while the other watches. You both love me and you want to make love to me, except I’m sort of a fuck buddy too, which is kind of demeaning but not if it’s consensual?” 

“Basically, yes,” Eliot says. 

“We’re already fuck buddies, sweetheart,” Margo adds. “I mean, unless something’s changed?” 

“Well, no. I mean, we are if you want to be, still.” 

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” Eliot says. “She’s in love with you, you know.”

“ELIOT!” Margo manages to look both stricken and like she’s about to slap him. 

“She drugged you so you couldn’t hurt yourself. I saw her. And by the way, I’m sort of in love with you too. So there’s that.” 

“How can you be sort of in love with someone?” Quentin asks. 

“Okay, I’m madly in love with you. I’m cultivating the art of understatement.”

Margo is still beat-red, staring down at the royal bedspread. It’s velvet and satin and everything a royal bedspread should be. 

“Margo?” Quentin asks gently. 

She doesn’t say anything. 

“Bambi?” he ventures, afraid he’ll get himself backhanded so hard he’ll end up on the very earthly floor of the Physical Kids’ Cottage. 

“What?” she half-asks, half-snaps. 

“I love you too,” he says. “I love both of you.” 

She looks up. “I’ll find a way around this, El. Eventually. I swear.” 

“Well, until then, we work with what we have. And right now, I have a very Fillorian marriage.” He smiles wanly. “But I still have both of you. And that’s what matters.” 

*********

In the end, they send Fen to visit her father for a few days. Before she gets too far along, blah blah blah, before travel becomes too difficult, blah blah blah, and soon she’s flitting off so happily that at least Quentin feels guilty. 

But not so guilty that doesn’t find his way to the high king’s bedroom that night, during one of rare storms in Fillory. Thunder rolls in wide peals and crackles against the clouds. It’s pelting rain; you can hear it on the tin roofs covering some of the corridors. But inside, the torches smoke merrily; fires throw twisting shadows on the walls. The stone walls are sweating, one of the most unpleasant parts of living in a castle, and Quentin’s glad to find himself ensconced in Eliot’s room, where tapestries cut against the damp and fire roars in the fireplace.

They’re waiting for him, Eliot in a suitably royal smoking jacket. Margo’s clothes are an enigma, covered with a silk robe. He can’t tell if she’s totally naked underneath or there’s some other surprise in store. They’re both drinking, and whatever they’re drinking is clear and sparkling. Oh my god, he thinks. 

“We used the button to get some decent booze,” Eliot explains. “They’re martinis. Bambi smuggled over a small bar. How would you like yours?” 

“Uh, shaken, not stirred?” Quentin manages.

Margo rolls her eyes. “Okay, 007,” she says. “How many olives? Lemon twist?” 

“Surprise me?”

Eliot laughs richly and moves to the makeshift bar they’ve arranged on a side table. “I can just pour you a glass of wine, Q,” he teases. 

“Do you have any vodka?” he asks. 

“It’s not as good as Mayakovsky’s, but yeah,” Margo says. Eliot pours him several fingers and he throws it back. It tastes like nothing going down, but the slow burn starts in his belly and spreads through his limbs the way good liquor should. 

“Well, if we’re doing shots,” Margo says, and holds out a hand. Eliot obliges her and she throws down at least two shots at once like a UCLA frat boy. 

“Are we done now, children?” Eliot asks. “Because Margo brought us something else.” A vape pen appears in his hand. “She got this from Josh. Guaranteed inhibition-free, fuck-like-bunnies high with extra performance effects. Whatever that means.” 

“Look, it’s what Josh smokes before _he_ gets laid,” Margo says. 

“And you know that how?” Quentin asks. He feels a pang of jealousy rising along with the liquor burn. 

She fixes him with one of her looks. “Because I asked, Coldwater.” She takes the pen from Eliot, clicks it several times, and inhales a lungful of magically altered marijuana. She motions Quentin closer, leans into him. He gets it surprisingly quickly and opens his mouth as if to kiss her, but instead of making out, shotguns the smoke. 

“Okay, that was hot,” Eliot says. 

Quentin exhales. Margo passes him the pen, and he takes a hit himself, then leans over and shotguns her in return. His lips linger on hers until she exhales, and when she pulls away, he can see her pupils are beginning to dilate. Quentin passes the pen to Eliot.

“Josh said two was enough,” Margo says. “Otherwise he said he wouldn’t be held responsible for our behavior. I think the words, ‘conduct unbecoming to a Fillorian ruler’ was mentioned. Also something about fucking random nymphs.”

Eliot hastily stows the pen.

“So …” Quentin says. He’s becoming acutely aware that he’s the only one wearing actual clothing. “Did you make it this warm in here on purpose, Eliot?” 

“Of course I did,” he says. “Let’s go, Q. Chop-chop.” 

“You’re scaring him,” Margo says. “Come here, baby.” She pulls Quentin close to her. “Eliot wants you to take off your clothes.” Her breath tickles his ear, which she nuzzles a bit before pulling back. “At least some of them.” 

“You’re wearing socks,” Eliot says with distaste. 

“Didn’t you have a problem with my socks last time?” Quentin asks. 

“He always has a problem with socks,” Margo says. 

“Only barbarians wear socks to bed.” 

“By ‘to bed’, he means ‘to fuck,’” Margo clarifies. 

Quentin awkwardly pulls off his shoes and socks, loses his t-shirt. Then he takes a deep breath and drops his pants, He’s wearing a pair of boxers underneath. 

“That’s better,” Eliot says. He’s staring Quentin up and down now. “You’ve been working out.” 

“It’s all that bow and arrow work,” Quentin says. “And the riding.” 

“It’s good to be king,” Eliot says. 

“And what about you?” Quentin says to Margo. “It’s only fair, Bambi.” He unties the robe from her waist and lets it fall. She’s wearing a deep red corset edged in black lace and ribbon, a matching g-string. Q sucks his breath in. 

“I had them make it special,” she says. “They objected to the black. But I’m the queen. I get what I want. And I want it to come off eventually, Quentin Coldwater. I like to fuck naked.” 

“El?” Quentin says. He’s not quite sure how Eliot will fit into this all this, but he’s careful to include him as much as possible. “Do I get to see you, too?” 

“All in good time,” Eliot says. He smiles wickedly. “What makes you think I’m wearing anything at all under this?” 

“Are you?” 

“A magician never reveals his secrets.” 

“Oh. My. God. You’ve been saving that line for _years_ , El, haven’t you?” 

“Shut up, Bambi. Quentin, shut her up.” 

Quentin smiles. He steps up to Margo and tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear. She’s looking up at him, pupils totally blown, and he realizes he’s never kissed her standing up before, never realized quite how small she is. He doesn’t think about it long before he’s leaning over and covering her mouth with his. He knows what she likes. His tongue darts out and over her lips; he catches her lower lip in his teeth and makes her gasp. 

“Why don’t you two make it over to bed?” Elito suggests. “Then I won’t be standing here quite so awkwardly.” 

Quentin lets her lips go and leads her over to the enormous bed. Some of pillows have been cleared off, or at least kicked to the floor. It’s on sort of a raised platform with gauzy curtains hanging from its four posters, so at least it’s far from the cold walls. Eliot settles at the far end of something a bit larger than a California king. 

“Your bed is a monstrosity,” Margo says. 

“It’s a bed fit for a high king, and you’re just jealous yours is smaller.” He sips at his martini. “Also you don’t seem to mind either sleeping or fucking in it.” 

Margo rolls her eyes at him. A particularly loud clap of thunder makes them all jump. 

“We do have lightning rods on this bitch, right?” Margo asks. 

“It’s enchanted,” Eliot says. “Tell me, Bambi, does Q like to have his neck sucked on?” 

She cocks her head at Quentin thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I’ve never really tried.” She sits on his lap, thighs on top of his, a head taller than he. “Do you like having your neck sucked on, Q?” she asks as she leans over and brushes his hair out of the way. Her lips find the soft skin underneath and suck at it gently. He runs his hands up and down her sides. The satin is slick, and he can feel the long, straight boning holding it upright underneath. Her cleavage is dangerously close to his face as she kisses downward, sucking and licking gently all the way.   
“Bambi,” Eliot says, “Pull your hair back. I can’t see.”

She sits upright momentarily. Her tits are level with Quentin’s face. Taking a hair tie from her wrist, she gathers her hair up into a messy bun on top of her head. Strands escape on each side and it’s unbelievably hot somehow, her arms raised to fix her hair, her tits rising up about six inches from his face. He can’t resist anymore and he pulls her close, begins kissing at the tops of her breasts. She squeaks a little bit — a rather un-Margo-ish sound — a throws her head back so he can have better access. He licks along the edges of her corset, knowing how close her nipples are to the edge. She’s squirming in his lap now, clearly wishing for more, and he thumbs under the lace, over the approximate location of her nipples. She hums with pleasure. He keeps rubbing there as she pushes him back on the bed and crouches over him on all fours. 

Quentin feels Eliot shift on the bed next to him. He’s doing something, but he can’t quite see what. 

Margo keeps kissing down, down, down. “That’s it,” Eliot encourages. “You know how crazy that makes him, Bambi.” She avoids his nipples — she remembers he hates that — and soon is licking at the soft skin on his belly. He lets go of her breasts and moans deeply. His legs spread almost involuntarily. When she reaches the waistband of his boxers, she glances up at Eliot. 

“Not yet,” he says. 

“But the poor boy’s dying for it,” she says. She sits up slightly and works her thumbs under his waistband, rubs at his hipbones. “You like that, Q?” She moves down again and — _oh gods_ — nuzzles her face against his hard cock. He can feel her through his thin boxers. 

“Bambi,” Eliot warns.

“Oh, hush,” she says. She keeps nuzzling, and opens her mouth, lips him gently. His boxers are getting soaked. “I can already taste him.” 

Eliot’s already greedy. “Tell me what he tastes like.” 

“Salty. That lovely tang of cum.” She licks at him thoughtfully and he nearly loses it. “I’d need to lick him off to give you a better answer.” She pulls the head of his cock through his fly. It’s soft and slick and dark pink with want. She holds him in her fist and licks him like an ice cream cone, around the bottom of his head, swirling up to reach the top. “Thick,” she says. “He’s so turned on right now. She catches a drop on her finger. “Here. Taste for yourself. You can do that much, can’t you?” 

“We’ll find out.” Eliot reaches out and takes the drop of Quentin’s precum off her index finger, then puts it in his own mouth. Quentin watches and realizes that Eliot’s robe is open now, that his hand is playing over a long, thick cock. Eliot closes his eyes. “I can do that much,” he says. “I’m not touching either of you.” 

“Should we get him off now?” Margo asks. “Or make him wait?” She weighs his balls in her hands. “Aren’t these full of come?” she purrs at him. 

“Oh, make him wait, definitely,” Eliot says. “It’s your turn now. Get up on all fours,” he tell her. 

“I wish I could suck you,” Margo says wistfully. “I haven’t sucked your cock since —”

“Yes, since you and Q both sucked it at once. I remember. All fours, darling. I know what you want. Quentin,” Eliot says. “Lick her. She likes it like this.” 

Quentin raises himself up off the bed, slightly dazed, his cock bobbing out of his boxers. He pulls them off and makes his way over to Margo. Her breasts are down against the bed, her ass raised up for him. He can see her pink slit beginning under the g-string. He sits behind her, then traces it downwards. His thumb lingers on her ass, pets it gently. She moans. 

“Bambi always did like to have her ass stroked,” Eliot says, “but other than that it’s a no-touching zone, so don’t get any ideas about anal.” 

His thumb strokes farther downward, toward that delicious pinkness. He parts her slit slightly. He can feel the wetness starting inside her and pushes the g-string to the side. 

“Don’t be a pussy, Q,” Margo says. “I want your tongue.” 

“Patience,” he says. Quentin slides an exploratory finger into her, just inside her entrance. She moans and wiggles against it, trying for some friction. “Shh,” he says, stroking her ass with his other hand. He moves his finger in small circles. His thumb reaches up and find her clit, flicks it experimentally. She gasps. 

“Q, if you like it, touch yourself,” Eliot says huskily. 

How could he resist that order, in that voice? Quentin reaches down with his other hand and finds his own cock hard and ready. He slides his foreskin all the way over his head and back again. He squeezes gently, strokes at the sensitive underside. 

“That’s it,” Eliot encourages. 

Margo’s slit is wettening now, swelling with his ministrations. He finally leans down and licks her gently. She whimpers. He licks her harder this time, then realizes what she wants. His tongue darts out all the way and finds her clit. She sucks in a breath as he starts working it in earnest. His hand speeds up on his cock. He hears a sound that could only be Eliot spreading some lube on himself. He hands him the same bottle. Coconut oil. He stops a moment, slicks his cock, and goes back to licking. This time, he takes her whole clit in his mouth and sucks. His tongue finds the secret spot under her hood and flutters against it. She moans and thrusts back against him. 

“She’ll come if you keep doing that,” Eliot observes. “Do you want her to come?” 

“I want her to come on my cock,” Quentin says, pausing a moment. Margo whines. 

“There’s no need for anyone to have just one orgasm tonight,” Eliot says, sounding insulted. “That’s what the pot was for. Bambi, sweetheart, do you want to come on his tongue while he jerks off?” 

“Please, Eliot?” she asks, and Quentin knows the rules of this game have subtly shifted. 

“Let her come, Q,” he says. 

He leans back in, finds that spot and sucks and licks. She moans loudly. He’s alternately under her hood now and rolling her whole clit under his tongue, then pressing down against it. She can’t tell what’s happening next and it’s making her crazy. She bucks at his mouth, wanting more. “Please, Q,” she asks. “Please suck and lick me like you were before.”

He relents. He purses his lips around her clit and flutters his tongue against her. She cries out. Both Eliot and Quentin are working their own cocks hard now, Quentin sliding his foreskin quickly and pressing on his underside. He’s going to come along with her if he’s not careful. Finally, with a throaty cry, she grips the finger inside her and comes hard against it, pumping on it again and again. He feels a warm rush of fluid against his chin, realizes it’s female ejaculate, something he’s only read about and half-believed, and the reality of it pushes him over the edge. Eliot notices. 

“Come on her,” he says. 

Quentin pulls back just in time to lose it all over Margo’s wet slit. He’s pumping come all over her, back arched and spurting. He pulls on himself to milk the last bits out, lets those few drops fall on her. He hears a cry and glances over to see Eliot about to come. 

“Let me come into your hands,” Eliot pants. 

Q holds out his hands just before Eliot arches back, closes his eyes, and sprays come into them. It’s thick and white and one of the hottest things Quentin has ever seen. He spreads it onto his own cock and begins jerking it. He should be softening by now but he’s not. _Thank you, Josh and your magical mystery tour._

She manages to wiggle out of her g-string now. “Q, unlace this thing,” she says. He obliges, and she pulls her corset off. Her high, full breasts fall free and he’s entranced by the sight. So, too, it seems, is Eliot. 

“I love your tits, Bambi,” he says. 

“I know, baby,” she says sadly. 

“I want to suck on them.” 

“I wish you could.” 

“Quentin,” Eliot orders, his hand still working at himself. “Suck her tits for me.” 

“Yes sir,” Quentin says, because it feels right. He lays Margo back on the pillows gently, careful with her after such a hard orgasm. She’s still breathing hard as he crouches over her, takes a nipple in his mouth, and sucks gently. She makes soft noises and tangles her fingers in his hair. Her legs are still spread wide, as if she can’t close them, despite the magic pot. 

She reaches down and starts jerking him off, a mixture of his come and Eliot’s lubricating him. “I think I want you to fuck me now,” she says, her eyes half-lidded. 

“How do you want me to fuck you?” he asks. 

“She wants fucked,” Eliot says. “That means she wants you to climb on top of her and fuck her silly, you lucky son of a bitch. She never lets anyone fuck her that way.” 

“We did it once before,” Quentin says. 

“Like I said, you lucky bastard.” Eliot tells him. “Usually I’m the only one allowed to do that.” 

“Fuck me, Quentin,” Margo begs again. 

“I thought you didn’t ask more than once,” he teases. 

She doesn’t answer, just pulls him down on top of her and guides him inside her. She’s soaked and warm and tight and slick from his come, and he’s slick from Eliot’s. He slides on her, takes a few beats to get a rhythm going. And oh gods, she lift her legs and locks her ankles behind his head. 

“I always love that trick,” Eliot notes. “Hope you’re up to doing all the work, though, Q.” He’s rubbing himself again. 

He’s up to it and more. One he finds his rhythm, the friction combines with the delicious slickness to force him into a fast pace, and she cries out every time he strokes against her g-spot. 

“That’s how she likes it, Q,” Eliot encourages. “Hard and fast.” 

Quentin picks up the pace. She rakes her nails down his back, bucks up to meet his cock as it slams into her. She’ll probably be sore in the morning, Q thinks, but she doesn’t seem to care very much as she whimpers and twists underneath him, trying to find her pleasure. 

“Bambi, touch yourself,” Eliot orders.

She slips a hand down between them and presses on her clit. It’s unbearably hot for Quentin, that small hand wedged between them, the way she tightens up when she rubs herself. She cries out. 

“Come for me,” he whispers to her. “I’m close. Come for me. I want you to come on my cock.”

It’s enough. She cries out, thrusts up to meet him, and grasps his cock as her orgasm flutters around him. That flutter throws him over the edge, and he somehow finds himself coming into her, his balls aching as he pumps more come into her that he didn’t know he had. The blue sparks shower around them again. He’s pretty sure it’s him by now. 

Eliot’s staring, working at himself. Quentin turns and looks at him. “That’s it,” he encourages. “I want to see you come this time.” 

Eliot’s eyes are beginning to glaze over. His cock is longer than Quentin’s, despite its circumcision, but not as thick. He’s working hard over it, pumping his hand and pausing to dip into circles on his underside. “Come on, Eliot,” Quentin encourages. “I want to see what it’ll look like when you fuck me.” 

That’s all it takes. Eliot explodes into hand, come smearing onto his smoking jacket. Quentin imagines his balls hurt as much as his do. Margo is propped up on the side of the bed, watching. 

“Well, I won’t be closing my legs for the next three days,” she says. “I’m all sticky. Why didn’t Fillory invent showers?” She casts something. “There. Much better.” Margo collapses onto the mound of pillows and yawns. Quentin and Eliot cast the same charm to clean themselves up. Eliot put on royal pajamas, but naked, Quentin and Margo fall into the enormous bed. They’re done for the night. 

“I hope that was satisfying,” Margo says to Eliot. “I mean, as much as possible.” 

“It was fantastic,” he says. 

“Thanks, you guys,” Quentin says softly into the dark, the crackle of the fire. The thunder rumbles again, not so close this time. He’s in the middle, Margo curled up against his side, Eliot facing him. 

“We love you,” Margo says simply.

“I love you too,” he says. He leans over, smells her hair. He wishes desperately he could do the same to Eliot, but the most he can muster is a platonic kiss on the cheek. “I love you both.” 

“We’ll figure this out,” Eliot says. “I promise, Q baby.” 

“We will,” Margo assures him. 

Quentin’s not so sure. But as he drifts off to sleep, both his lovers beside him, he can’t help but feel at least a tiny spark of optimism.

**Author's Note:**

> Margo forgot something. Did you notice what it was?


End file.
